


can't think straight

by returnsandreturns



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, F/F, Friends Who Make Out, Oneshot, Post-Episode: S06e13, Season 6 Finale Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4078150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/returnsandreturns/pseuds/returnsandreturns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re a real girl,” she says. </p><p>Frankie raises a pristine eyebrow. </p><p>“As opposed to?” she asks. </p><p>Britta pokes her one more time, in the stomach. </p><p>“A shiny metal cyborg,” Britta says, “like Abed but very. . .well-programmed.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	can't think straight

**Author's Note:**

> quick unedited one-shot because I SHIP THEM REALLY HARD.

The week after half of their group leaves, everything goes straight to hell. 

Jeff goes on a bender and wakes up naked in the study room, the Dean isn’t there to see it happen and falls apart when he hears about it, Chang almost gets arrested again— _twice_ —and Britta realizes that she can’t pay this month’s rent unless she finds new roommates soon. She sits at one of the dusty PCs in the library at Greendale and tries to write a Craigslist ad, but she can’t make her fingers move on the keyboard and can’t think of anything to type besides, “Wanted: two stupid charming control freaks to help keep me from being homeless or getting married to Jeff Winger in a fit of pique,” anyway. 

That night, when she can’t get Jeff to pick up his phone, she calls the Dean. 

“What’s wrong, Britta?” he asks, as soon as he picks up. “Is it Jeffrey again? Keep him there, I’ll bring him clothing—I have one of his button-downs right here, don’t ask why, I’ll be there in five minutes.” 

“Jeff’s not naked!” Britta says. “Or, well, he might be, wherever he is, but he is not naked here. Could I sleep on your couch?” 

“Britta,” the Dean says. “Did you get kicked out of your apartment? Was it because of one of your little protest things?”

“No,” she replies. “It’s just. . .really empty.” 

“Oh,” he says, kindly. “Well, there’s a crazy emotion of yours that I can actually understand. Come on over. Girl’s night!” 

“Girl’s night,” Britta intones.

“ _Girl’s night_ ,” the Dean repeats, very seriously. “I’ll call Frankie.” 

*

When Britta makes it to the Dean’s apartment, Frankie is already there. She’s wearing a full set of dalmation pajamas that are too short for her and standing uncomfortably in a corner. She stares at Britta with wide eyes. 

“Girl’s night?” she asks. 

Britta shrugs, then drops her backpack on the couch and digs around in it until she unearthes a fifth of gin and a handle of rum. She holds them both up. 

“Girl’s night,” she says.

*

“MARGARITAS,” the Dean yells, over the sound of the blender, and Britta jumps and almost drops the nearly empty bottle of gin. 

“Easy there,” Frankie says. She’s had a couple of shots of rum and she’s almost starting to look like less of a robot, sitting next to Britta on the couch. Britta leans forward to gently poke one of her cheekbones.

“You’re a real girl,” she says. 

Frankie raises a pristine eyebrow. 

“As opposed to?” she asks. 

Britta pokes her one more time, in the stomach. 

“A shiny metal cyborg,” Britta says, “like Abed but very. . .well-programmed.” 

Frankie nods. 

“I can guarantee you that I am not made of metal,” she says, reaching out to awkwardly place a hand on Britta’s head, the only real sign that she’s not super sober right now. “Now, I’m going to have a margarita, because that seems like the next logical step here.” 

“Is that what your OS is telling you,” Britta mumbles, but Frankie is already halfway to the kitchen, where the Dean is singing “Wasting Away Again in Marga-dean-a-ville.” She lays down and listens to them talking, staring up at a weird stain on the ceiling. She’s almost asleep when a knock on the door makes her jolt and sit up. 

“It’s open!” the Dean yells, and Jeff steps inside, looking scruffier than normal.

“ _Winger_ ,” Britta says, falling back down again.

“Perry,” Jeff replies. “I got your voicemail, containing no words and one sigh, and then fourteen DMs on Twitter from the Dean that just say ‘girl’s night’ with too many exclamation points.”

“I just wanted a couch to sleep on,” Britta says, “but, you are here, and marga-dean-as, and _I_ am wondering what that stain on the ceiling could _possibly_ be.”

She gestures vaguely upwards, watching as Jeff glances up then makes a face. 

“I don’t know,” he says, “and based on my knowledge of the Dean, I think we probably don’t want to know.” 

“Do you think it’s a—“ Britta frowns, then leans up to loudly whisper, “A _sex stain_?”

“I don’t think it’s anything,” he says, “because I am not thinking about it. Did you say marga-dean-as?”

“Kitchen.”

She listens to him walk away and to the others greet him before turning her head towards the back of the sofa and letting the last of the gin drag her to sleep. 

*

When Britta wakes up, Chang is sitting on the arm of the couch at her feet and watching her. She makes a wild noise and flails to get up, because this is how nightmares start and, also, most nights from that entire week that Chang was living in the ceiling at their apartment. Her apartment. Her apartment until the landlord kicks her out for not paying rent because she’s too sad to find new roommates.

“I need to drink more,” she says, stumbling past him. 

“I bet that’s not true!” he calls after her.

In the kitchen, Jeff and the Dean are leaning heavily against each other, talking in low voices while Frankie calmly makes drinks in the corner. Britta says, “Please tell me one of those is for me.”

“I am making them because I do not know what to do with my hands right now,” Frankie says, cheerfully. “Please drink one.” 

“Okay,” Britta agrees. “Did you guys know that Chang is here or did he break in through a window again?” 

“ _Jeff_ invited him,” Frankie says, “because he is very drunk and is trying to set Chang and the Dean up, which I think is a terrible idea, because Chang is a lunatic and will someday murder us all.”

“But _you’re_ gay,” Jeff is saying, “and _he’s_ gay, apparently, and you could be gay _together_.”

“I’m _not gay_.”

“But it’s _heavily in the mix_.”

“Geez, just make out already, am I right,” Britta says, nudging Frankie in the side. 

“I think, for once, everybody should stop making out with everybody for just a second,” Frankie replies, very slowly, clearly counting on her fingers like she’s trying to come up with all the combinations of people who’ve paired off in their group. Britta peers up at her. 

“You’re really drunk, aren’t you?” she asks, delighted. 

“I am wasted,” Frankie agrees.

“Don’t forget Troy and Abed,” Britta offers. “Nobody saw it but they disappeared one time before midnight on New Year’s Eve and then Abed wrote _Kickpuncher_ slash fanfic for, like, a whole year.” 

Frankie nods, looking around the room. 

“We need paper,” she says. “I have to make a list.”

*

They end up making a chart on the Dean’s refrigerator with a red dry erase marker, all of their names and a wild tangle of arrows and hearts and curse words. Everybody’s connected to somebody else via their lips except for Frankie and Elroy, whose names are at the bottom, completely alone. Britta stares at it for a long time. 

“I’m not, uh,” Frankie says. “It’s okay that I’m not in your weird dysfunctional orgy of make-outs.” 

Britta stares at her instead, and Frankie’s eyes widen.

“Uhm,” she says. 

“Can I—“ Britta starts, reaching up to touch the side of Frankie’s face. Frankie doesn’t pull away, almost leans into it, and Britta adds in a whisper: “It’s okay. I lived in New York.” 

When she kisses Frankie, it’s weird but in a nice way, because Frankie melts into it instantly. Britta feels powerful, the way Frankie just falls into her body like she’s been standing up straight for too long, curling long fingers into Britta’s hair. When she swipes her tongue against Britta’s teeth, Britta feels her whole body flush. She gasps and turns her head to catch a breath.

“Maybe Jeff can convince the Dean to find Elroy and make out with him,” she says, against Frankie’s cheek, and Frankie pulls away to stare at her for a long moment before bursting out laughing. It’s a really nice sound. Britta wants to lick it out of her mouth. She leans in to do so when Frankie turns her head instead. Her eyes are pink around the corners, and her normally perfect hair has been ruined by Britta’s hands.

“You’re not doing this for the Is Frankie a Lesbian Pool, are you?” she asks, quietly.

“Oh my god, Frankie, _no_ ,” Britta says, grabbing her hand. “Even though I’d maybe be able to pay my rent this month if I did. But I _won’t_.” 

“No,” Frankie says, shaking her head. She squeezes Britta’s hand. “You know what? Go ahead. Friends know basic facts about their friends, and we are—we are friends.” 

“Friends,” Britta agrees.

“Friends who make out?” Frankie asks. 

Britta nods. 

“In my experience,” she says, “that’s what friends do.”


End file.
